Great-grandfather, whaler out of Nantucket,the harder sort who threw the harpoon, drew warm blood,made huge death on the open sea.
Came home one year to find his land fencedfor ecclesiastical uses, tore it all down,told the priest to go to hell, and would do his own praying after that.
Sailed till his knees went stiff with beri-berion a ship stuck in Antarctic ice.
My father worshipped him, remembered his deft handsthat could ."put an arsehole in a crackie." with a hammer and a handsaw.
The old man signalledhis affections: crafty hard of hearing,heard the boy's words, even took his daughter's orders when he called him ."Sir!."
Grew old jigging cod on the southern shore,then fell from a roof and lingered days to tell his last stories,empty his mouth of good oaths.
What I have of him is my father's reverence forhis silence, a sense that pain will kill youif you speak of it
